


Meat Grinder

by levendis



Series: Prompt Fics [57]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Frottage, Light Dom/sub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-02 08:58:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6560155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hardly ever seems to understand what it is she’s doing. Even now, even if she’s obvious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meat Grinder

**Author's Note:**

> for anon, who prompted: I don't know why, but I have a frottage kink, of Clara getting herself off by grinding on Twelve. I'd prefer if he didn't get off, but I'll leave it up to you.

He hardly ever seems to understand what it is she’s doing. Even now, even if she’s obvious. He’s used to, just about, how she attaches herself to him at random moments. Hugs or cuddling or…other.

So he doesn’t put his book down when she comes over to the couch in the library, where he’s been obstinately parked for the past two hours. Shifts just a little bit as she straddles him, settles down over his thigh, knee digging into the cushion between his legs.

“This is one of those things?” he asks, turning a page.

“If that’s okay.”

He nods, swallowing. Another page turned. She’s got reason to believe he kind of enjoys this, being used like this. Like he’s not even here.

She lets her full weight, such as it is, press against him. Page turn, swallow, a flush rising along his neck. She braces her hands on the back of the couch, squeezing the edge.

“Just reading about. Uh. Rev -  revolutions, during the…”

She clenches her thighs, sliding just slightly closer. Skirt pushing up around her hips - she’s bare underneath, does he know? That her cunt’s flush against him, that she’s wet enough to leave a stain?

Looking down, she can see his cock hardening, tenting his trousers. She’s got reason to believe he enjoys this, the not being touched, his arousal sort of parallel to hers but not quite intersecting. She watches his hands shaking, the page being turned - notices the set of his jaw, and then bows her head. Leans in, her chest brushing his. He’s still trying to read; she’s letting herself breathe hard.

He hesitantly nudges his leg upwards, against her; she pushes back down. Hips tilting, the rough friction against her clit. He’s babbling something about France, choked-up and missing half the nouns. He’s full-mast now, or would be, if there weren’t clothing in the way: an obvious, straining erection, and she’s not going to touch it.

Still France. She’s still not talking. Still dragging herself against him, just a touch too slowly. Picking up speed, though. His thigh lifting up incrementally, and the push back, grind down, her breathing going ragged. France, England, Bretons? The blunt pressure against her clit, the smooth fabric, the way he’s trembling despite his best intentions.

She comes as he’s garbling out something about trebuchets. She sinks down slowly, gradually relaxing, then rolls off. The two of them side-by-side, parallel, almost but not quite touching. She turns, watches him: eyes closed, hands flexing into fists, doing his level best to ignore his current genital situation, the wet spot on his trousers.

“Trebuchets, yeah? Tell me.” She’s torturing him, she knows. She’s got reason to believe he enjoys that.

He swallows hard, crosses his legs awkwardly. “So. Uh. In 1437…”


End file.
